AUTHOR
The drive was quiet, a heavy silence that did nothing to calm the storm of uneasiness raging inside Nicole. The sleek black car moved through the night, leaving the chaos of the docks far behind.
They navigated the maze of Tokyo's streets before finally crossing into Kanagawa prefecture, the urban sprawl giving way to more secluded, wooded areas.
Their destination was not a hidden compound but a traditional ryokan-style estate nestled in the hills of Kamakura. It was a place of contrasts. A high, modern wall topped with subtle security cameras surrounded a beautiful, historical-looking main house with a curved tile roof and deep engawa verandas.
Paper lanterns with the subtle, stylized crest of the Mazoku clan glowed softly, casting light on meticulously raked gravel gardens and ancient stone lanterns. It was peaceful, yet every detail whispered of unspoken danger.
Men with watchful eyes and the tell-tale bulk of concealed weapons paused their conversations to bow slightly as Kenji passed. Women in elegant kimonos moved gracefully along the walkways, their expressions neutral.
Children chasing fireflies in the garden fell silent and still as the car approached. It was a community, a family, but one where every member understood the razor's edge they lived on.
The car stopped. Kenji exited without a word, his shoes crunching on the gravel. Tokito opened Nicole's door. "Just follow him," he said, his voice quieter now, suited to the calm of the place.
Kenji led the way into the mansion, the interior a blend of old and new: dark polished wood, sliding shoji screens, but also the low hum of state-of-the-art electronics and security monitors. Nicole followed, her steps hesitant on the gleaming floors.
He stopped suddenly and turned. His cold blue eyes did a quick, efficient take of her—the torn clothes, the dirt, the way she held herself stiffly, favoring one side. His gaze snagged on her wrist, where a dark purple bruise, a souvenir from the warehouse, peeked out from under her frayed sleeve.
The sight did nothing to his expression. It remained an impassive mask. He didn't ask how it happened. He didn't offer sympathy. He simply turned to Tokito, his voice flat and devoid of emotion.
"Take her to the Kitagawas."
With that, he turned and walked away, disappearing down a dark hallway without a backward glance, leaving Nicole standing there, more lost and alone than ever in the beautiful, dangerous silence of his world.
Nicole followed Tokito through the bustling, low-lit corridors of the estate's medical wing. The air smelled strongly of antiseptic and something herbal, a sharp, clean scent that couldn't quite mask the underlying metallic hint of blood.
They passed a large open room where rows of cots were filled with injured men. Some had fresh, white bandages wrapped around limbs or heads, while others bore older, yellowing dressings.
A low murmur of pain and quiet conversation filled the space.
Women in simple, practical clothes moved efficiently between the cots, changing bandages and offering sips of water. In a quieter corner, a young boy sat perfectly still as an older woman carefully stitched a cut above his eyebrow.
As they walked, a few of the less seriously injured men sitting near the doorway noticed Tokito. They dipped their heads in a gesture of deep respect, which he acknowledged with a slight, almost lazy nod of his own.
Tokito led her to a sliding shoji screen door that was slightly ajar. He knocked once and then pushed it open, revealing a smaller, private office. Inside, shelves were lined with medical supplies, organized boxes, and stacks of clean linens.
A woman with her dark hair pulled back in a severe but practical bun looked up from a ledger. She wore a simple, grey dress that was both modest and functional. She appeared to be in her early thirties, with a kind but weary face that held a natural authority.
"I'm Toru Kitagawa," she said, her voice calm and measured. She set down her pen and gave Nicole her full attention, her eyes quickly but gently assessing the new girl.
Tokito gave one of his easy-going smiles, though it was softer here, more respectful. "Toru-san, this is Nicole. Kenji asked that you look after her. She's... probably had a rough time. Probably traumatized. And she's got some injuries that need seeing to."
Toru's gaze lingered on the bruise visible on Nicole's wrist before meeting her eyes again. She didn't offer empty platitudes or overwhelming sympathy. Instead, she gave a single, firm nod.
"Of course. Thank you, Tokito-san. I'll take it from here." Her tone was one of pure capability. She was a woman who dealt in solutions, not panic.
Tokito gave Nicole a final, reassuring look. "You're in good hands." With that, he slipped back out the door, leaving Nicole alone with the calm, steady presence of Toru Kitagawa. The door slid shut with a soft click, closing her into this new, quiet space within the endless storm.
The woman, Toru, was being nice. Her movements were slow and deliberate, her voice a low, steady hum meant to soothe. She guided Nicole to a low stool in the center of the room, the paper screen door closed, offering a sliver of privacy.
"Let's get you looked at," Toru said softly. She asked basic questions as she prepared a basin of warm water and clean clothes. "What is your age? Where are you from?"
Nicole just stared at the woven tatami mats on the floor. No reply. The words were still locked away, buried under two years of silence and fear.
Seeing she would get no answers, Toru didn't push. Instead, she gently prompted, "I need to see your injuries. Can you please take off your shirt?"
Nicole hesitated, her fingers trembling slightly. But the woman's calm authority left no room for argument. With stiff, mechanical movements, she complied, pulling the thin, dirty fabric over her head.
The air in the room seemed to still.
Toru Kitagawa, who had treated countless injuries in this very room, who had seen the aftermath of clan wars and brutal punishments, could only stare. Her professional composure cracked for a single, heart-stopping second.
It wasn't just one bruise. It was a map of suffering painted in brutal shades of purple, green, and yellow across the girl's back and ribs. It wasn't just a few scars. They were a web of thin white lines and raised, angry marks crisscrossing her skin, telling stories of pain too numerous to count.
The silence stretched, heavy and thick. Toru's eyes traveled over the landscape of abuse, her breath catching in her throat. Finally, she managed to speak, her voice barely a whisper, all pretense of a routine examination gone.
"My child," she breathed out, the words filled with a horror she could not conceal. "What happened to you?"